Ever since the year I was an overachieving (see: pill-popping) Kindergarten room mom, I tend to steer clear of volunteering at school. I’ve just found that my kids do better on their own without me being there to, you know, ask questions like “So is the Principal Pal thing rigged, or what? Who do I have to throw some Benjamins at to get one of those frickin’ magnets on my car?”

But you know me, I like to help. I’m just much better behind the scenes: pulling weeds in the school’s butterfly garden, or sending in canned goods, or selling my soul to the devil in exchange for the last existing yellow poly folder with pockets AND prongs in the western hemisphere.

One year I found that the best way I could help was by sharpening all of our teacher’s classroom pencils every weekend. (Those poor teachers have THE WORST pencil sharpeners in their classrooms!) My oldest son Vince would bring home a baggie full of about 100 dull pencils every Friday and I would zone out and reflect on my deep thoughts over the sound of my professional grade X-ACTO whirring away. Very therapeutic. I like my pencils like I like my men: tall, sharp, and with a big, firm, pink… eraser on the end. Ew, what did you think I was going to say?

This year will now forever be remembered as the year my child was finally rewarded for my hoarding tendencies.

That’s right, people. The stars have aligned and Mini-Me’s math teacher sent out an email this week asking parents to save twist-on bottle caps for a future project.

Uh, like these?

BOOM.

My sweet child came home all aglow yesterday because apparently I was the only parent to reply to that teacher’s email.

See? We all have our own unique gifts and ways that we can serve others. Mine just so happen to involve repetitive tasks and the DSM-IV. Whatevs. You say PTA, I say PTSD. God bless us, every one.

So that’s what’s new around here.

But elsewhere…

Last week I was invited to write this for HLNtv.com about moms who “overshare” on the Internet. And apparently it struck a nerve with some people. Granted, I’m not licking my own face repeatedly or slapping my nekkid butt cheeks all up on a gyrating Footlocker employee’s man meat, but still—this article garnered the second ugliest comment I’ve ever received in the five years I’ve been doing this blogging thing. (Which you cannot read because it was not published. As a general rule, the only assholes I pay any attention to whatsoever are my own and my children’s.)

I’m also very excited to be making my debut at Bonbon Break this week to share some of the behind the scenes pinnacles and pitfalls of the whole self-publishing experience. Please check it out!

I hope your Labor Day weekend is everything you need for it to be, times two, with a side of Come Back Sauce, and a free kitten.

I myself am a big fan, as you probably already know, based on the number of blog posts and now a bestselling short story I’ve written about my yaboes.

In fact, I interrupt this blog post for an important message: BREASTS ARE BEAUTIFUL. Big or small, (or in my case—one of each), old or new, shaken or stirred, boobs rock. And nobody, I mean NOBODY, can tell me otherwise.

Which is why I am so disturbed about women being told to stop breastfeeding in public.

The following is my opinion about breasts, nursing, and Chick-fil-A-Holes. Warning, there is bad language (from me) and shockingly offensive intolerance (from others). Read at your own risk.

You would! I know you would. Which is why I like you so much. And I’d totally do the same for you. We’re cool like that.

So now that we’ve got that out of the way, I have a big announcement to make. Two big announcements, actually:

First, I am completely giddy to announce that I am the editor and co-author of a brand new humor anthology by women, about women, published by my amazing team at In The Powder Room. (Mad props to Di, our CEO, and Kim, our Social Media Manager, for their incredible hard work and brilliance.)

This future best-seller* features 39 absolutely awesome short stories by some of the wittiest female writers I could wrangle. And I’m not just saying that because I wrote one of the chapters. (It’s about my boobs. Of course it is.)

(*This is me, using “The Secret” to let the Universe know my intentions. I’ll let you know if it works.)

Truthfully, creating this book has completely consumed me for the last few months, and I could not be more proud of the results. In fact, releasing it into the world today was an awful lot like giving birth, a comparison I have detailed in my columnIn The Powder Room today. (Spoiler alert: poop and swearing.)

Anyhoo…

So that’s what I did my summer vacation.

Which brings me to big announcement number two:

(Heh heh heh, I said number two.)

My children returned to school today. And I’m truly grateful… not for my own selfish reasons (entirely), but because those poor little lambs have totally raised themselves this summer while I devoted myself night and day to every little phase of this spectacular book. So, I’m thrilled for them that they can finally stop trying to kill each other and put their brains back into use. Yay kids! Go forth and learn stuff!

Actually, if I’m being totally honest, today is a little bittersweet for me. I am finally out from under the weight of this enormous project and *should* theoretically have a little breathing room to do things like, oh, I don’t know, play a rousing game of Uno or go to the pool and actually swim with the kids instead of checking email and proof reading manuscripts, but it’s too late… they are gone.

Hear ye, hear ye! The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge welcomed their first child, a son, on Monday afternoon in London!

Ah, isn’t she lovely?

Like so many others, I was absolutely glued to the TV and Twitter earlier this week anxiously awaiting the exciting news of the new little royal heir. And clearly, I wasn’t alone. Based on the news coverage, you would think this was the first baby ever born in the history of the world.

Can you blame us, soaking up the media drippings like thirsty sponges. This is no ordinary birth story. This is a real life fairy tale.

But actually, even though lovely Duchess Kate has just given birth with the utmost of pomp and circumstance to a child who is third in line for the British throne, her birthing experience was remarkably similar to mine.

For instance: we both had boys.

Both of our boys were born in hospitals, in the late afternoon.

Kate’s baby was 8 lb., 6 ounces; mine was 8 lb., 5 ounces.

We both had matriarchal grandmothers with questionable taste in hats eagerly awaiting the news.

We both had doting husbands by our sides. Although, in my case, my husband was actually lying by my side because he had thrown out his back playing 36 holes of golf with his buddies just weeks before my due date and was in too much pain to stand up for very long. (Motherfucker.)

We both pushed our little princes out of our royal vajewelry boxes and earned souvenir peri bottles and ice-pack-filled stretchy mesh undies.

Both of our sons have official titles. Kate’s son shall be called “His Royal Highness Prince of Cambridge;” my son was dubbed “Sir Cone Head of the Epidurally Paralyzed and Sluggishly Low Muscle Toned Birth Canal.”

We both had easels displayed shortly after our births to share critical information with the public. Kate’s was placed on the sidewalk and announced that she “was safely delivered of a son;” mine was placed outside of my hospital room and announced “WARNING: Extreme Post-Partum Sensory Disorder! Take extra precautions and avoid all physical contact. Patient requests that hospital staff remove all traces of perfume, scented body lotions, and hummus breath before entering.”

Both Kate and I enjoyed a celebratory 41-gun salute. Kate’s was performed by the King’s Troop Royal Horse Artillery in Green Park; mine was performed by my flatulent father-in-law’s pants every time he bent down to admire his newest grandchild.

And lastly, we both had a uniformed man outside shouting after the birth. Kate’s was a royalist dressed as the town crier. Mine was a hospital custodian shouting, “WE’RE GOING TO NEED HAZMAT SUITS AND EXTRA BLEACH…APPARENTLY SHE ATE SAUSAGE AND PEPPERS YESTERDAY.”

This summer is disappearing faster than my finger nails during The Walking Dead. (Shhh…don’t tell me what happens, I’m only halfway through season 2!)

Lots of exciting things are happening around here:

1.) We took a little family vacation to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. It was a quick one and sadly, I didn’t have time to visit any friends while I was there, I was working the whole time, and it rained most days, but other than that, it was nice to see my mom and stepdad and eat my weight in Thrasher’s Fries, Grotto’s Pizza, Fractured Prune Doughnuts, and Snarky’s Italian Water Ice.

2.) I received the very exciting news that I wasnamed a BlogHer Humor Voice of the Year for my Diary of a Sexually Maturing Leopard Gecko post, thanks to my friend Kerry of HouseTalkN who loved the story of Batman’s prolapsed hemipenis enough to nominate it for consideration. This is my second year to be named a Humor Voice of the Year by the kind folks at BlogHer and it is such a special honor to me because there were over 2600 posts submitted and read by a committee of my blogging peers. Only 3% of nominees were chosen for this award, so I feel beyond humbled to be listed among such a select group of writers. Thank you, BlogHer. I am truly grateful. To see the full list of BlogHer VOTY ’13 honorees, click here.

3.) I’m getting ready to go to the BlogHer ’13 conference in Chicago at the end of the month. My brilliant friend Suniverse and I are going to be co-presenting a session about Blogging and Anonymity Friday July 26th at 3:15 PM, so mark your calendars if you’re going to be there and that topic interests you or you just want to snarf down a homemade Vajazzled Vulva. (What?! It’s a cookie, perv!)